


Death Kindly Stopped

by Kushiel



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: But Mostly Hurt, Childhood Trauma, Consensual Underage Sex, Found Family, Geralt of Rivia's deeply messed up sense of self, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of discussions about death but no MC's actually die, Multi, Multiple relationships but they're not the focus, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 16:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30091800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kushiel/pseuds/Kushiel
Summary: Six year old Geralt knew lots of things. He knew how to read better than Edim did, and Edim was eight. He knew how to chop vegetables without cutting off his fingers. And he knew he was going to die bloody.But the sun sets every day and he doesn’t waste much time worrying about that either.Or, Geralt of Rivia's slow and painstaking climb to find his self-worth.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 9
Kudos: 72





	Death Kindly Stopped

**Author's Note:**

> I was musing on all the different ways being taken to Kaer Morhen as a literal baby would have screwed with Geralt's worldview. The other boys at least have some reference point of "normal", but how would Geralt know? 4,000 words later - my answer. 
> 
> CW: After a lot of debate I ended up not tagging for suicidal thoughts, because Geralt explicitly does not consider himself suicidal. However, he places so little value in his own life that many of his thoughts and actions could easily be read that way. So if you need to click back now, please do!

* * *

Six year old Geralt knew lots of things. He knew how to read better than Edim did, and Edim was _eight._ He knew how to chop vegetables without cutting off his fingers. And he knew he was going to die bloody. 

Not that he spent a lot of time thinking about it, he had bigger concerns. Zarrig had promised he’d teach Geralt how to throw a knife next winter if he could hit the target with a stone by the time he returned. 

So one day he’d die like everyone else; on a table or deep in the woods. But the sun sets every day and he doesn’t waste much time worrying about that either. 

* * *

He’s nine years old and ( _finally)_ old enough to start his _real_ training. Varin is pacing up and down the line of new recruits doing his best imitation of Master Barmin. 

It’s not far off, but he’s using too many threats. Barmin’s threats only worked because everyone knew they were promises. 

Geralt lets his speech filter through the back of his mind. Varin’s got his steel sword out, swinging it a hair's breadth from one boy or another for emphasis. Geralt eyes it up and down. He wonders how long it’ll be before he’s tall enough to not need the dummy swords anymore. 

And Varin must have taken Killer Whale before he came out here, because _how_ is he _still going._

“Some of you will die here. _Most_ of you will die here. I can’t promise that the trials won’t make you die screaming, but I _can_ promise that if you waste my time _I will.”_

It’d be a shame if he died before he got to swing a real Witcher sword. 

And...huh. That’s new. It never mattered when he died before. 

* * *

Most of the boys are quiet at first, which is annoying. Geralt’s been waiting too long for friends for them to not _talk_ to each other. 

But being at Kaer Morhen the longest has its advantages. He shows Balgram and Gardis how to steal wool socks without getting caught. He teaches Eskel how to read, slowly sounding out words in the candlelight. He sneaks extra sweets and gives them to Yrmel and Gweld. He learns every boy's name, story, and laugh. 

The trials tick closer - but what does that matter? 

* * *

It matters. 

An eternal fire boils his blood. 

Until it doesn’t. 

Then he’s in an empty dormitory and the sound of his breath is _too loud, too loud, oh god make it stop it’s so loud._

And he can hear footsteps down the hall now but he can’t stop looking at the empty doorway and it’s days and nights and days until... _Eskel._

He’s tall and broad and real and Geralt isn’t alone. If he focuses he can hear Eskel’s breath instead of his own. 

* * *

Slowly, slowly, more come back. Not enough - but not none. 

It doesn’t occur to him to be grateful he’s in that number, but he now understands the safety of silence. 

* * *

Geralt is relieved when he’s chosen for the second round of mutagens. Gardis barely survived the first and Geralt didn’t want to ever stare at an empty doorway ever again. 

He’s tall enough now that he’s been practicing with real swords for months - so that’s that. 

The other boys go quiet around him again, and Geralt can’t figure out why until the morning of the experiments when Eskel slams him up against a wall and hisses “you’ve got to _live_ you bastard. You hear me? You _live_.” 

_Huh._

He’d never really considered that others might care when he gets around to dying bloody. But he begs death to stay it’s hand over his friends every night so he guesses the other way around...could be true. 

And Geralt still isn’t sure how to care about his own death, but he’s never seen Eskel scared like this and he knows how to care about Eskel. 

When the fire boils his blood, he tries to _live._

* * *

The experiments make him more - and less. His senses are sharper, his movements precise. 

Everything else is dulled. 

It’s not that his emotions are _gone_. He can remember the taste of sorrow and the spark of joy. But they are...distant? Maybe. Occasionally he feels the stirring of something just below the surface, but when he tries to latch on it slips away. 

So maybe he died a little bit after all. 

But then he’s in the stables and Eskel has his hand on his cock and is pleading “No more, Geralt. Okay? No more. You’ve...shit yes like _that_ ...got to stop fucking around. You don’t get to die on me now because you’d rather sneak off to the library...oh _God..._ instead of doing extra drills. Promise me, you have to _promise me_ ”. 

And Geralt hasn’t forgotten how to obey an order, so if Eskel needs him to make it past his first year on the path then that’s what he’s going to do. 

* * *

It takes years to notice Lambert. Well, he’d _noticed_ , in the way you notice a thunderstorm, but after a certain volume it all just filters back ‘round to the background. 

The kid was so hot headed that he bet Gweld he wouldn’t last a year. He’d learned to only make bets you don’t mind losing. 

Until one day Geralt looks up and the kid is a man and Gweld is gone and Coȅn is burning.

Geralt stares at the empty space beside Lambert for weeks before it occurs to him that maybe it’s not fair to define a person by the people he’s not. 

He and Eskel start out small (because there is still a he _and_ Eskel, while Lambert’s lost his _and)_ , complimenting his latest brews and inviting him to stay for rounds of gwent. Turns out that underneath all that bite the mans a fucking genius, which explains why he’s still alive, and his sharp tongue is downright enjoyable when it’s not turned on you. 

But Lambert never stops mapping the exit points before he sits and his swords never rest fully out of reach. 

So when Lambert starts talking about his da’ one night six sheets to the wind, things click into place. Well, they don’t click into pace _then._ But Geralt has figured out some of his emotions tells by then so a few days later he’s got it. 

Lambert’s always known the truth of it too. You die bloody in the end. But Geralt stays alive for Eskel and Lambert for spite. 

Look, Geralt isn’t _good_ at this, but there are only three of them left and he figures two reasons are better than one. So as Lambert is saddling up his horse that spring he clasps him on the shoulder and grunts out “I would be upset. If you died. So...don’t.” 

He beats a hasty retreat before Lambert can recover - Eskel can clean up that mess. 

* * *

Jaskier is...a lot. 

He talks even more than Lambert, but none of it is background. He expects _replies._

And Geralt knows, he _knows_ , better than to reply. To retreat to the safety of silence. But Jaskier’s voice has a melodic lilt and he talks about literature that Geralt never got the chance to read and Geralt’s throat betrays him and responds anyway. 

It doesn’t take Jaskier long to learn that language too (he’s been informed the bard is fluent in five more and a passing conversationalist in three others) and that’s...alright. 

Jaskier is like no one he has ever known. He is easy with affection and paints the nights in poetry. And Geralt understands Lambert a little bit more now, because sometimes when Jaskier calls him _my dear_ his vision tunnels and he feels like the animal whose only instinct is to _run._

But other nights it’s quiet and Jaskier strokes his hair in the firelight and that’s...alright too. 

So he’s known from the first time the bard got in a brawl over Geralt’s honor that Jaskier is firmly on the list of people who Geralt won’t allow to die. And he’s not an idiot, he knows Jaskier cares about him as well. 

But Jaskier cares about _everything_ and _everyone_ all the time. He lets people into his heart as easily as he throws them out. Geralt basks in Jaskier’s attention but doesn’t ever let himself pretend it will last. 

* * *

It takes almost three years of traveling together for Geralt to get properly hurt on a hunt. 

A rock gives way and his footing slips and a fucking _Gravier_ gets a good way towards disembowling him. And Geralt would not have called that one. Not that it matters in the end. 

He beheads the last two Graviers before collapsing, because Jaskier is nearby and fuck if the last thing he does is leave the bard to be killed. 

His innards shift uncomfortably as he hits the ground but they seem to still mostly be...innards. Which would be encouraging if his toxicity levels weren’t going to kill him first and if somehow he survives that too the sky looks like rain so that’ll turn the wound septic soon enough. 

All he’s ever wanted is the chance to die for Eskel, so he’s surprised to find he feels at peace dying for Jaskier instead. 

Moments later, the bard’s face swims in his vision like he’d been summoned. 

Hallucinations, interesting. 

“Geralt! _GERALT_!” and...that’s an awfully loud hallucination. 

“Geralt, god _dammit_ I see your eyes are open. I know you like to pretend you can’t hear me but now is _not_ the time... ah, good. There you are. Okay now stay with me, please, tell me what to do, there’s _got_ to be something I can do.” 

And Geralt had never heard that panicked tone from Jaskier before and it’s maybe the worst sound he’s ever heard, so he makes himself push away from the darkness, step into the pain, and _think._ And...toxicity. Right. 

“Potion. Short round bottle. Yellow.” he rasps out.

White Honey and Philter could both be described as yellow in short round bottles, but he doesn’t have the energy for more words and his vision is mostly gone so this will either save him or kill him quicker. Fifty fifty odds are better than he had before. 

Soon enough he feels a bottle pressed to his lips and - he may not be dead yet after all. The White Honey jolts through his system, agonizing as always, but afterwards he can breath deeper. 

“Raff’s and Kiss next. Red liquids in square and cylindrical bottles.” he discovers he can talk. That’s a good sign. 

Jaskier quickly finds those as well, and Geralt can now see enough to grunt his assent before they’re also brought to his lips. 

Jaskier’s hands are steady, though the edges of his voice haven’t yet softened. “Hi there. Welcome back. I must say it is _truly_ good to see you,” he says with a soft smile. “Though, there is the small matter of you bleeding out all over me that we still need to deal with.” 

“It’ll heal.” Geralt grunts. “If I can get inside before the storm.” 

Then he remembers that it’s getting dark and the road isn’t safe and Jaskier needs to go _now_ because Geralt can’t protect him like this. “You take Roach. I’ll meet you there,” ...at least he would try to. 

Jaskier looks at him like he’s grown a third head. “What the everloving _fuck_ are you talking about?” 

“It’s too dangerous. You go.” he knows he’s bad with words, but he’s sure that was pretty damn clear. 

“You seriously think I would just _leave you_ here? Okay no, we are not talking about this right now. I am getting Roach and we are putting _you_ on her back and going back to that shithole inn _together_ where you will _fucking well_ _live_ so I get the chance to yell at you _properly_.” 

In the end they make it back to the inn unharmed. At least no more harmed than when they started. 

He lets Jaskier half-drag him to their room and ceeds to the dark. 

* * *

He wakes up feeling surprisingly...good? He’s clean and dry and his wounds have been wrapped. Not wrapped well, but - wrapped. 

His heartbeat briefly ticks up as he tries to make sense of his surroundings. Mistakes mean waking up covered in blood and dirt and piss. But then he smells Jaskier and, ah. right. 

Jaskier saved his life. His stomach does an uncomfortable turn (which is really _not_ what he needs right now) as he tries to figure out where that fact fits. When he can’t get it to settle he gives up and opens his eyes. 

Jaskier is sitting on the floor with his back to the bed, reading. He jumps up as soon as he feels Geralt shift. 

“Oh, you’re awake! Here, some water,” Geralt will never get over how _happy_ the bard always is to see him. 

“How long?” Geralt asks once he’s finished drinking. 

“Three days.” Jaskier chirps. Then, serious. “I was starting to worry that all of my efforts had gone to waste.” 

“We can’t afford three days,” is all Geralt can think to say. 

...clearly he thought wrong again. Jaskier is quiet for _far_ too long, and that has never once boded well for whoever pushed him to that state. 

“...can’t afford three days, he says, like _that’s_ the concern here,” he finally mutters. “Fine. I was going to at least wait until you ate, but as you no longer look like you are knocking on death’s door we are doing this _now.”_

Geralt has no idea what _this_ is, so this time he keeps his mouth shut. 

“We have known each other for some years now, yes? Answer me please, with you words.” 

“Yes,” Geralt replies, not seeing the direction that Jaskier is leading. 

“And have I given you reason to believe that I am not a true friend? You _cannot_ still believe that I am only here for song or coin,” and yes, he’s definitely angry. 

“Of course I don’t!” Geralt defends. 

“Then pray tell, where in the _everloving fuck_ did you get the idea that I would _ever_ leave you to die _for want of coin or comfort_?!” 

His voice is still angry, but his face is hurt. And Geralt...doesn’t know what to do with that. 

So he settles for the truth. 

“That’s my lot, not yours.” 

Which...clearly wasn’t Jaskier was expecting. He freezes, the wind knocked out of his sails. 

He carefully takes a seat at the end of the bed, gently resting a hand on Geralt’s ankle. “I’m...I think I’m going to need you to explain exactly what you mean by that, love,” his voice hesitant. “I’m afraid three words or less won’t do.” 

Geralt doesn’t know how to explain something that just _is_. His death is as much a fact to his life as his swords - more so. It came first. 

But Jaskier is waiting, so he tries. “A Witcher’s _job_ is to die,” he starts. “We might die in training or might die on the Path, but we die all the same. The sun sets, and one day some monster gets me. It’s just...how it is,” he finishes lamely. 

And now Jaskier is looking at him with something like horror in his eyes, so _fuck,_ he chose the wrong words _again._

“It’s not like I _mind,”_ he hurries to correct. “If I can buy you more time in the process, that's enough. You’re a _bard. You_ die old.” 

That - doesn’t look like it helped. But the bard's thumb starts stroking Geralt’s ankle as he thinks, so that’s okay. 

“So...let me see if I have this straight. I get that risking your life is part of your job, I do. But you’re telling me that every time you go on a hunt, every time you leave me at a tavern worried sick that this might be the time you don’t return, that just...doesn’t bother you,” he finally starts. 

“...yes,” and Geralt knows Jaskeir wants more from him. He _knows._ But what more can he say but the truth? 

“Is it because you can’t feel fear?” Jaskier tries next. 

This is why he doesn’t _talk_ about this. 

“No, they didn’t...they didn’t _take_ it. It's just....it’s another thing that people say where I don’t know what they _mean,”_ he growls, frustrated. 

“Shhhhh, love. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Take a deep breath for me. Yes, just like that, good. But I do need to understand. What if you just nod or shake your head for me, would that be okay?” 

Which sounds...doable. 

“So to you, dying on a hunt is just a...fact?” 

A nod. 

“But it’s not a fact that bothers you.” 

Another nod. 

Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Do you _want_ to die?” he asks next, looking scared of the answer. 

He aggressively shakes his head no, because _no_ he’s not getting it _again._

“Right. Right. Good. That’s….good,” Jakier murmurs while he takes another moment to think. “So you try to live, but know one day you won’t. And you haven’t ever known to be bothered by that?” 

...close enough. Another nod. 

“Right. ...So if that’s the case...do you think my life holds value?”

And wait, since when were they talking about Jaskier? “Of _course_ I do -” 

“Ah ah dear,” Jaskier chides, “don't try to speak yet, I know it’s difficult. Though it _is_ flattering.”

“Do you think _your_ life holds value?” Jaskier continues.

Another nod, Jaskier looks surprised by that. He furrows his brow. 

“So then you’d agree that if possible, you should do everything in your power to keep me alive?” 

_Obviously_. That’s why they were having his conversation in the first place. A firm nod. 

“Good. And if all of that is true, then you’d also have agree that I should do everything in mine to protect yours?” 

Geralt’s brow furrows in confusion. He knows that just walked into some kind of trap. Because he could follow Jaskier’s logic, Jaskier had made sure of that ( _“Formal logic is really dead simple once you get the trick of it, just try it Geralt”)_ , but...no. The path was right but the conclusion wrong.

Jaskier shifts up the bed, dropping a soft kiss to Geralt’s forehead. “Just - consider it, love. It’s not fair that you always get to be the white knight. My hair might not _quite_ fit the part but I deserve my turn too. If you don’t know how to care, then please, let _me_ ,” he whispers. 

And that was - something to think about. Eskel demanded he care for himself, but he and Eskel had grown into as much as up with each other. Geralt could understand why Eskel cared, either of their deaths would take a part of the other. 

But Jaskier was just human. A brillant, bold, human with _land_ to boot - if he ever cared to claim it. He had other friends, other lovers, all across the continent. He had _options,_ but he was here. With him. And Geralt had never been able to parse out why. But he’ll do anything to keep him another day. 

So Geralt has been ready to die for this boy but now Jaskier is sitting here saying that what he wants is for Geralt to _live_ ? And he wants to _help_? 

He has no idea what that even _means_ and all he can rasp out is a desperate “ _How_?” 

Jaskier pulls back, eyes searching. Geralt doesn’t let himself look away, holding Jaskier’s gaze until slowly - slowly - the bard starts to smile. “Oh, my dear Witcher. You are going to teach me about your potions, how to know what you need and when. You are going to show me how to properly suture and wrap wounds. We’re going to get Roach to tolerate me so I can get you on her back if you are ever too hurt to stand. But first, I think we get you some food, yes?” 

And...yes. Yes. Those sounded like things he could do. 

* * *

If Jaskier plants the seeds, Yennefer demands that they grow. 

Life has wronged her and she is owed an apology. Death came knocking once - it blinked first. 

Yenn doesn’t have time to mend broken things; her possessions are well crafted and meticulously maintained. 

Geralt was fool enough to bind himself to her, so he's expected to maintain himself too. 

He learns this quickly enough the first time he comes to her with a gash still healing down his back. 

It’s been _months_ and Yenn’s dress is slipping off her shoulder and his hands are in her hair before she shoves him down to the couch. He winces ever so slightly as his back hits the upholstery, but it’s enough. Of course it’s enough. 

Yenn freezes, but then slowly follows him down to straddle his thighs. She guides him as she drags his shirt over his head, looking down at the wound. 

“When did this happen?” she finally asks. 

“Few days ago. Was sloppy. Griffin.” 

“You... _got sloppy?_ ” and shit, that is not a tone that ends in orgasm. 

“Not a big deal, I’m fine,” Geralt tries to backtrack, “Can’t we just -” 

“No we _can’t just,”_ Yenn snarles, suddenly furious. “You _dare_ show up at my door with a days old wound that hasn't even been _properly sutured_ after you _bind our fates_ and think I’m just, what? Supposed to ignore it? Supposed to sit at home wringing my hands and hope that you send me a postcard before the time you up and die because you ‘ _got sloppy’? Fuck_ you Geralt of Rivia.” 

Next thing he knows he’s shoved through a portal and falls, shirtless, on his ass in some backwater taven in who-the-fuck-knows, but his swords crash through moments later and he finds Roach in the stables so maybe she’s serious about this not dying thing after all. 

* * *

Eskel _is_ him, and Jaskier _wants_ him, but no one has ever _needed_ him. 

So he gets Jaskier to show him how to make that salve that softens his scars and he spends more of his purse on thread to stitch up the wounds that could heal with time alone. Then he swallows his pride and asks Lambert how the hell he does recon, because that bastard _never_ gets surprised. 

Jaskier has been softening his Path for years, but Geralt slowly learns to ease it for himself. 

The next time he meets Yennefer he’s allowed to stay. 

* * *

Destiny wins, of course. 

It takes no time for the small, blonde girl to slide her way into his heart and make herself at home. 

The list of people who can’t die before him is getting dangerously long. 

But Eskel and Lambert spend less of their time on the Path, spending whole seasons safe in the mountains helping him train Ciri. Jaskier splits his days between Oxenfurt and Kaer Morhen. He encounters far fewer monsters not trailing in Geralt’s shadow. Yennefer visits at her leisure and has no more time for death than she ever has. 

And that’s all…good. Better than good. 

* * *

So these days, when there are monsters near Kaer Morhen, Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert all hunt together. Why risk any one of them when together they are guaranteed to return? 

As expected, the chort was an easy enough kil. But Eskel overpowers Aard _again_ and blocks their path back _again._ Geralt and Lambert eye each other in silent agreement that he won’t be hearing the end of this for a _long_ damn time - but first they have to get home. 

It’s the middle of summer so they aren’t in any real danger but it still takes two extra days to carve a new path back to the keep. 

They get back right around lunchtime and Lambert throws open the door to the main hall - dramatic bastard. 

Geralt opens his mouth to call for Ciri but the cub is already up running. She slams into him full speed, burying her head into his stomach in relief and crying out “Dad!”. 

_...Oh._

That’s new.

He does the only thing he can figure and squeezes her tight, murmuring “It’s okay cub, I’m here. I’m alright.” 

Eskel and Lambert are here too, and they’re Witchers too, and they’d kill for her too - but they aren’t her _dad._

Maybe that matters. 

So weeks later when Ciri states decisively that - 

“When _I’m_ queen, I’m going to build a _whole_ _garden_ just for Uncle Vesemir. And Uncle Jaskier will have a room for his instruments and Uncle Eskel can be in charge of all the farms. Uncle Lambert is the best at planning so he will make sure no one can ever beat me in battle. And…,” she blinks up in confusion, “what do you want, Dad?” 

\- Geralt thinks maybe he deserves the chance to find out. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and Comments make me warm and fuzzy :)
> 
> Find me on tumblr at @kushielsmercy


End file.
